Tuesday
by Isaldaria
Summary: Agent John Doggett enjoyed the quiet of this normal Tuesday evening. But then the door rang. He stood up, wondering. He didn't expect anyone until Friday... Oneshot


„No…",

The back of a hand slapped across his face, whipping his head around in response and leaving an unpleasant mark at his cheekbone, where the ring, sitting on one of those fingers, had made so violently contact. John staggered backwards, bumping with his hip into the edge of the work surface of his kitchen. He hadn't even raised his hands to defend himself.

"No, SIR!" The voice of his father rang in his ears, echoing from the walls.

The evening had made an unexpected nasty turn. He didn't foresee this, when he opened the door. One minute he was watching a report about – he couldn't even remember now – and the next…

His father had stormed in like a wild bull, fists flying, pushing him into the kitchen, a sour odour engulfing him like the pervert abomination of an eau de toilet. He was drunk, more than usual and watery bloodshot eyes had locked into his, displaying the only emotions he was able to show in the presence of his son: Disgust, disdain and hate.

"You useless scum!", he roared, "You're worth less than the dirt beneath my fingernails!," Saliva flew everywhere when he spat those words into his face, still hurting him more than the physical abuse.

John had no idea what had triggered it this time. Normally his father would show up on a Friday evening, when his favourite team - an always-bottom-of-the-list – had lost once again or when it was the birthday or the day of death of his mother or of Luke or anything else raising the oh so short temper of his genitor. Friday means time, enough time to hide the traces until Monday, so that no suspicious question were raised, an simple excuse about hard workout in self-defense on his lips, accompanied with a cheeky grin.

But it was Tuesday. This was new. He didn't know how to handle it. He – he was not prepared.

Before he could even open his mouth to say something – anything - , another punch had hit him, again the ring-clad finger left a stinging trail on his right cheek and his ears ringing.

"Please…", he managed to chocke out.

"DON'T YOU 'PLEASE' ME, YOU BASTARD!"

A heavy right swing hit him in the stomach. All air was blown out of his lungs as he helplessly fell on his knees, unable to breath.

Suddenly, the other hand brutally grabbed his scalp hair, and he was knocked face-first into the rim of the kitchen-table. Immediately everything was full of blood – red blood running from his nose onto the floor, blood spilling from the gush at the root of his nose, where he had hit the rim, into his eyes. Half blinded he toppled over, biting his tongue as he crashed on the floor, tasting blood.

A fierce kick into his side let him slide half a meter away, leaving a smeared red trail behind.

He moaned.

Blood oozed from his mouth where he had bitten himself.

In a last effort and barely conscious he curled into a fetal position to protect himself, fearing for the worst. Never before had his father struck so hard, so violently.

It was as if he was trying to kill him with his bare hands.

Fear paralyzed him, panic started to bubble up in his insides, nonetheless he could not move for his dear life.

One last time he looked into the eyes of his father, the very same eyes he had inherited.

His father towered over him, taking a swing for a well-aimed kick; his face contorted with rage and so much hate he did not understand.

Perhaps he deserved this.

For not saving Luke.

Losing mom.

Perhaps he deserved to die.

But it never came to that.

In the next second a massive body crashed into his father, lifting him from his feet and sending them flying, limbs entangled to the floor.

He must have lost consciousness for some seconds, because the next thing he perceived, was Scully kneeling at his side talking rapidly into her mobile.

"…white Caucasian male, 40 years, with heavy…" Her voice drifted in and out like a badly tuned radio. His eyelids started to drop but he managed to keep them open. "… head-wound and suspected concussion. Altering state of consciousness, come ASAP!" She had nearly shouted the last words.

She tucked away the device and bent over him, serious concern stamped into her features.

"John?" she asked more quietly, stretching out one hand and grabbing his shoulder.

"John, can you hear me?"

He blinked, one painfully slow blink, opening his mouth again to state that he was ok, that everything was ok, that nothing has happened here and that they should forget what they have seen.

All that came out, was more blood; and suddenly he retched.

His whole body cramped, and in a knee-jerk reaction he prized himself up and vomited between his hands.

Scully was in an instant at his side, holding him up as he threatened to fall down again when the adrenalin ebbed away and the sudden strength in an also sudden way left his arms.

Even when his stomach was empty the heaving continued, leaving a mucilaginous string of saliva, blood and bile dropping from his mouth to the kitchen floor. Breathing became even more complicated, the spasms did not let him.

The room started to spin, he felt strangely light-headed as the room waltzed around him

"Concentrate on your breath, John. Slowly, in and out, not to deep, in and out, that's fine." Scully was rubbing soothingly circles on his back while his breath evened out eventually and the heaves abbated.

In the background he could hear his father fuming, ranting, spitting insults at everyone, especially at him.

His vision cleared a little bit and he could crawl away a few feet from the vomit only to collapse against the kitchenette.

Scully had managed to grab some paper towels, filled a bowl with warm water from the tab, folded the towels and crouched down in front of him.

Gently she raised his chin with one hand and examined critically his already swollen face. Then she started to dab away the blood at his cheek with a wet towel, leaving only the nonbleeding cut behind.

Next she pressed another dry towel against the cut at the root if his nose. Pain stung through his head and he hissed by the sudden sensation.

"Skinner, get some ice from the freezer, we need to stop this nose bleeding." His boss appeared on his other side, pressing a bag with ice-cubes into his neck, holding him by his upper arm to stabilize him.

All his senses felt like wrapped in cotton wool. Shivers started the get a hold on him and soon he was trembling from head to toe like a newborn doe. Out of nowhere the panic was back, swallowing everything else. Tears started to form in his eyes and rapidly blinking he tried to get rid of them, but it was no use. More and more came and soon they were running down freely over his face, immingling with the lingering traces of blood and dropping down from his chin onto his chest.

So first he didn't realise that Scully was speaking to him, reassuring him that all was over now. He clung to her voice like a drowning to a life buoy.

This is how the medics found them.

Everything what happed then rushed past him. Someone shone with a small light into his eyes, another one opened his shirt, he was laid on the floor and faces swam in and out of his vision. Finally Scully injected something into his vein and he knew no more.

Darkness encased him, blissfully smooth velvet darkness. It was comfortably warm. He lay there for several minutes, too groggy to do anything else than breathing, when he sensed a slight movement next to him.

He wasn't alone.

Terror shot through his body and terrified he sat upwards. At least he tried to. The movement roused dull aches in its wake, aches he knew would grow by the time. Out of nowhere a piercing pain exploded in his head and made him groan loudly, tears shot into his eyes.

Hands grabbed him at his shoulders, holding him down. For one wild moment he thought his father was with him again, but then he realized those hands were far too slim. His heart hammered in his chest.

"John, calm down. You're safe. He can't hurt you anymore."

He opened his eyes. He was in a small hospital room, with only one bed and a small night light, dipping everything else into shadows.

Scully looked down at him with worried eyes and wary expression. It softened as soon as she noticed he had recognized her and wasn't about to lash out.

She let his shoulders go, sliding her hands down his upper arms and settled instead at the edge of the bed, taking his hands in hers.

"I'm glad you're awake. We were worried about the extent of the concussion, you've received quite a heavy blow. We feared he had cracked your skull with that move."

She squeezed his hands reassuringly.

"But everything is ok, we've made a computed tomography and checked the pictures very thoroughly. The kick in your stomach of course has left a contusion at your liver, but nothing seriously to worry about. You will be fine within the next two weeks if you take it slowly."

She was still holding his hands, slowly rubbing with her thumb over the back of his hand.

"What did you see?" he finally managed to ask.

She sighted and looked briefly out of the window of his room and back to him.

"Enough. Skinner and me were walking towards your door when your father smashed your head into the table. We could see it through the window. The door was closed, we had to break in…" her voice trailed off, it seemed as if she wanted to say something else, but had decided against it.

So he sat there, staring at her with fearful eyes. Words failed him.

What did she think of him now?

Agent John Doggett, the complete failure.

He couldn't hold her gaze and looked away, down at his lap. A lump had formed in his throat and fresh tears welled up in his eyes, the first already rolling down. Why was she still here?

A wretched sob escaped him, in vain he had tried to hold it back.

She moved. Now she would leave and refuse to work with him from now on, which was better for all by the way, maybe he should quit, the whole office would know by now an-

His rapidly tearing train of thoughts was interrupted when she pulled him into an tight but very warm embrace.

All barriers broke. As he started to cry desperately, she gently guided him until his forehead rested in the crook of her neck, stroking the back of his head again and again.

The tension fell from him. The fear someone may find out, the shame, and the angst of every next Friday.

He slung his arms around her middle and wept. He lost track of time, didn't know how long they already sat there but he did not care.

It didn't matter anymore.

His world had shrunken into this embrace, he wanted nothing more than to stay like this forever, to forget, to fall into oblivion and never wake up.

He sensed that Scully slowly rocked him forwards and backwards like a wee child, still stroking his hair, patiently trying to put his mind at rest.

His head started to hurt more as he calmed down, his sobs finally slowly dying away.

Carefully she loosened his grip and pushed him a little bit away, looking him into his eyes.

With one hand she wiped away his tears and rested her hand in the crook of his neck, smiling tentatively at him.

"Better?"

John nodded, pulling a face when the movement made his head clang in warning. She noticed, of course.

"Try and get some sleep, will you? It's half past three in the night." She moved him to lie down again, rising from the bed and settling into the chair next to it.

He felt utterly spent. Already his eyelids started to drop, but he withstood the urge to give many questions he wanted to ask, but the thoughts were swirling in his mind he wasn't able to formulate a simple sentence.

"You stay…?" he murmured.

She smiled.

"I will be here for you."


End file.
